sick to bastard death

Big, thick and unless he's hallucinating — wet at the tip, as it lays against this guy's slightly soft belly. A large hand wrapped around the base. 

Eddie slides it in his bag, because finders keepers. It's not like he's got a plethora of gay porn to choose from in fucking Hawkins, Indiana. He's not gonna look a gift cock in the mouth. No fucking way. Not him.

Once he's home, Eddie lays his find on the counter as he gets Wayne's magnifying glass out of the junk drawer. Needing a closer look.

He's a pervert, okay? He's not ashamed of that fact.

And Polaroids aren't known for their quality. They're always a little muddy even without having battled the elements. 

He swings Wayne's reading lamp over, turning the knob, adjusting the bulb brightness to high with three clicks.

Looking closer, he can see moles dotted all over this dude's stomach. And yeah. That's the best looking dick he's ever seen. 

Not that he's seen many. But still. This is a good cock.

The veins—

The door slams open, the wind catching the flimsy metal, and Eddie immediately snatches the picture up, sliding it into his jacket pocket. 

Wayne looks at his set up, eyebrow raised. "What are you up to?"

"Splinter," Eddie says, holding up his finger. "Got the sucker."

Wayne nods, and Eddie turns off the light before flouncing off to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. 

He has business to attend to.

August 1986

Steve Harrington is helping pack up the remnants of Eddie's old bedroom. The trailer is in fucking shambles, and most of this is just trash by now. Steve's bitchy about helping, but Eddie will take the extra set of hands. Especially since he still fucking hurts from the bats chewing on him.

"It's fucking hot in here," Steve bitches, and he's not wrong.

"It's a twisted tin can, what'd you expect?" Eddie snaps.

Steve's throwing shit in boxes, and Eddie is doing the exact same. He can sort it later.

"Is that mine?" Steve asks, making Eddie turn to see what the fuck Steve can possibly think he has of his. Eddie's no goddamn thief.

Steve's standing there, Eddie's top drawer from his nightstand dangling in his grasp, looking down into a box where he'd clearly dumped everything. 

Then, Steve reaches down, coming up with a Polaroid. The same one Eddie jerked off to for months. The one of the dick.

Jesus H. Christ.

"Is this my dick?"

Eddie swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, "I don't know, is it?"

"Why do you have my dick in your nightstand?"

"Why was your dick blowing around town for anyone to find?"

At that, Steve looks up, a shit-eating grin on his face. 

Up to no good, Steve pulls his shorts out, looking down.

Oh, what the fuck? C'mon. 

"Oh yeah, definitely mine."

"If you say so," Eddie says, knowing his face must be flushed. The cock belongs to Steve Harrington. Of course it does.

Steve's grinning, and it's unnerving. 

"What?" Eddie snaps.

"Nothing," Steve says, smiling, "Just. If you wanted to look at it, all you had to do was say so."